


Slowing down a speedster

by I_could_not_think_of_anything_cool



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Humiliation, Immobility, Restraints, Stuffing, Superpowers, Verbal Humiliation, Weight Gain, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:20:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29715699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_could_not_think_of_anything_cool/pseuds/I_could_not_think_of_anything_cool
Summary: In a world where the portion of the population has powers, Lewis Falconer gets a power related to food. He was fine with it until he found out his boss's secret. Now his powers could finally be put to good use.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 22





	Slowing down a speedster

This was _definitely_ not how I thought my life would go.

I figured that I wouldn't get to catch all the bad guys like superheroes did on TV, and I was actually pretty OK with that. Some people didn't get any powers at all, and they turned out OK. But even no powers was better than lame powers, and I got a lame power. No, scratch that. I got the lamest power of all time.

My power is the ability to make perfect food every time, exactly as my mind imagined it to be. It's not exactly super strength, and people made sure I knew it. I sought comfort from my dad.

"It's lame," I told my dad. "And girly. Everyone knows cooking is for girls."

"I'm not so sure about lame, Lewis. And cooking is a useful skill for everyone involved. Fitting, perhaps, but not lame," he said.

"Easy for you to say. Your power is knowing when someone's lying, and it let you be a cop."

"That's not as cool as you think, you know. You don't want to know about every single time a person lies to you, kiddo." My dad's eyes grew heavy with sadness. "It ruins your faith in humanity and your trust in everybody."

"What can I even do with this?" I complained.

"Be the best chef in the world," he said. He sounded wise when he gave advice. You might even end up on TV one of these days."

"You think so?"

"I know so. Until then, can you get your dad the perfect sandwich?"

"Did you say all of this so I would get you a sandwich?" I asked.

"No, of course not! I said that to make you feel better. I happened to get hungry afterwards, so I asked you for the perfect sandwich," he replied. I groaned and got off the couch.

"Fine."

* * *

I took my dad's advice and went into culinary school. That wasn't too bad. It wasn't too interesting, after all. Powers make what everyone else would call learning seem routine, like I'd done it a million times before. Then again, I probably had.

"Congratulations, Lewis," the dean of the culinary school said as I graduated with honours. "What next?"

"I'll figure something out," I told her.

I started applying for jobs like a madman. None would take somebody with no experience, but one person wanted to interview me. A man by the name of Balfour Vanderchip. Odd name, but OK. He offered me room and board if I was to come in for an interview and take a test for him to see my worth as a personal chef. I couldn't refuse. I would get some work experience and a handsome salary, and finally be able to move out of my parents' basement. I will never forget the interview I had with him.

I was supposed to turn up to an address for the interview. I took the bus there, staring out of the window. What if I just got laughed at? What if I forgot everything and looked like an idiot? What if I had food in my teeth and it showed whenever I smiled? I got off and followed my phone to the address given to me. I ended up at a house. And it was huge. I had been given the address of a rich man's penthouse.

Don't get me wrong, I knew that I would be working for a rich dude, but I didn't think they'd be this rich. Like, penthouse and luxury cars (yes, cars, _plural_ ) in the driveway. I will never understand why modern rich people's houses look like boxes piled up on each other. I knocked on the door and waited. My stomach devised a gymnastics routine. My hands grew sweaty. Eventually, I was met by my possible new employer.

"Hello, sir," he said. Even his appearance was striking. Black hair that stood straight up on his scalp (probably the work of gel). An angular, thin face and body that made him look a little like a rodent. "You must be Lewis Falconer. I am Balfour Vanderchip. You came here for the position of my personal chef, correct?"

"Yes. You had the best offer for someone with no experience and had just finished culinary school," I said. And Balfour . . . laughed.

"Honest. I like that. So, let's see if you can properly cook," he said. "I want you to make me a Cesar's salad. I'm sure everything you'll need is in the fridge, and the tools you need are in the drawer to the right of the oven. I'll show you there."

"Thank you. I'll need about half an hour, give or take," I replied. "You might get bored." He didn't move, just watching as I worked my proverbial magic. Ingredients and tools appeared to work on their own. His jaw dropped. I scooped up a helping of salad for the star-struck man.

"That is incredible," he breathed. "You're hired."

"Hired? But you haven't even tried it. At least try it."

He scowled for a second. "If you insist." He took a forkful of salad and ate a bite. "Now I know you're perfect. You start next Monday. I'll show you where you can sleep." I didn't have a chance to protest before he dragged me over to the most luxurious looking bedroom I'd ever seen.

White in colour, with an oak bedframe and the softest looking mattress, duvet, pillows and bedsheets I'd ever seen. An empty wardrobe stood waiting to be filled with clothes. An ensuite bathroom was there for my own personal use. "I hope this is up to your standards," he said. As if it couldn't be. I just nodded. "I thought so. I look forward to you working here, Lewis."

"So do I," I said.

* * *

As I worked at the sprawling house of Balfour Vanderchip, I noticed weird stuff happening. For a start, my boss had little to no real structure to his day. He'd go out at random hours and come back covered in bruises, cuts and scrapes.

"What happened to you?" I asked, as I got him some first aid and an ice pack.

"I got into an argument with a client," Balfour replied. "I suggested another idea and . . . they didn't like it."

"Again? This is happening a lot; maybe you should hire a bodyguard to keep you safe," I suggested, as I wrapped a bandage around his bruises.

"I'll think about that," my boss replied. "Lewis, could you make me an ice cream or . . . something fattening."

"I thought you didn't like fattening things."

"I've just been beaten up. Can I at least have a pick-me-up?" I scooped up some chocolate ice cream for him and he ate all of it. "More. I need more. I need French fries and ketchup. Please." I made him French fries, smothered them in ketchup and served them to him. He grabbed them and hobbled over to his bedroom, shutting the door in my face.

"Could have at least said thank you," I muttered.

* * *

Another thing that freaked me out was that although I was usually the only person there, I could still hear an odd whirring sound coming from random places in the house. And even though I never did any cleaning, everything seemed spotless. I thought it was a weird fan making the noise. Maybe my boss did the cleaning himself or just hired a really discreet cleaner, but soon I found the real reason.

There was a robot roaming the halls. A tiny, adorable little robot sweeping the floor. It was no more than four feet tall, and it had a screen for a face. A crude smile made up of blue coloured pixels made it look just a little human.

"Where did that come from?" I asked, perched on my bed with terror.

"Cleaning robot. They're generally cheaper to maintain than human cleaners and maids," my boss said, talking about it like it was little more than a morning coffee. "We have seven in total. An inventor friend made them for me. I am their benefactor." That made sense. He was rich and a little weird.

"A little warning would have been nice," I said. My heart rate began to slow down after that. "Anything else I ought to know?"

"Yeah. The basement is off-limits to you, as it is a workspace for my inventor friend," Balfour replied.

"Of course, sir," I said, trying to change the subject. "I've wasted enough time. What would you like for breakfast?"

"Porridge," Balfour demanded. "With honey on top. If there isn't any honey, use sugar. No more than two tablespoons of the stuff."

I found these restrictions rather odd. "That's a little harsh on yourself. What's wrong with sweet-tasting things?"

"They have too many calories," Balfour replied. "I don't like things with too many calories." It still seemed odd, but I didn't press it because he paid me too much to care. So far, I knew that my boss had little cleaning robots and an aversion to anything with lots of calories (unless he'd just been assaulted). I just didn't know why yet.

* * *

"Lewis!" Balfour cooed one morning, as he ate his French toast. "There's something you ought to know. A few of my . . . associates will be coming over to discuss business this afternoon, and I've been bragging about your abilities as a chef."

I dropped my butter knife. "Y-you have?" Hearing that felt good.

"Yes. They'll probably want you to make some food for them. They'll be in my living room," my boss informed. "Make sure to remember that. I don't want you embarrassing me."

"Understood, sir," I replied, getting a notepad and pen ready to take orders. Soon after, four men were welcomed in by a little welcoming robot. They were all large men who wore all black suits. Their entire bodies were covered up. Their hands were encased in white gloves and all of them had shades.

"Lewis, my associates are here. If you get there quickly, you can make sure to get their orders," Balfour smiled. I went over with my notepad.

"Hello, gentlemen. What would you like?"

"Cheese pizza," one man told me. "One of the smaller ones for myself."

"Same again, but with pepperoni," another man replied.

"Cheeseburger," a third man replied.

"French fries with ketchup," the fourth said.

"Cesar's salad," Balfour ordered. All four of them looked at him oddly, but a simple glare set them straight. I wrote them all down and left to get to work. Everything seemed to be going fine until I handed the boss his Cesar's salad. Once I was out of the room and they'd thought that I couldn't hear them, they began with the criticism.

"Come on, boss, relax for once. What's so bad about pizza, huh?" one man asked.

"Yeah, with a personal chef this good, you can afford to treat yourself," the second pointed out.

"Are you insane? Weight gain will make me lose everything! My powers, my reputation, everything!" Balfour hissed.

"What does that mean?" a third asked.

"If boss eats too much, he'll get fat. Then he'll lose his special super speed and he can't be Gangster Flash any more," the fourth explained.

This made so much more sense. Being away at random times, coming home with beatings and wanting everything he usually hated, having little robots do his bidding, parts of the house that I can't enter. The basement was probably where his genius inventor friend lived, making evil things for him to use against the heroes. I went to the kitchen and made myself something. I was going to need something strong and sweet to get used to this. I made myself a coffee and began taking long swigs. One of the little cleaning robots rolled in, staring up at me. "What do you want?" I asked it. That was probably a stupid idea.

"Come to the basement at midnight tonight," the robot replied, with a computer generated voice. I scrambled back, spilling my coffee.

"But I can't go in there!" I said, just as he/she/they/it left. My boss and his friends heard my squeal.

"Lewis, what happened?" Balfour asked. "You're not hurt, are you?"

"One of the robots wandered in and I was caught by surprise and spilled my coffee," I shouted upwards. There was silence afterwards.

"Lewis, go clean that up. I don't want your clumsiness to interrupt my associates and I," he said, leaving me alone. I began mopping up the wasted coffee, my heart trying to jump out of my chest.

I would just have to wait until midnight, then.

* * *

I stayed up until midnight, feeling terrified. I padded out of my room and went downstairs, journeying to the forbidden basement. The door was, surprisingly, open, but everything was dark. You'd think a guy as rich as Balfour fucking Vanderchip could afford to put in some decent lighting. "Hello?" I said. Nobody answered. "Hello, is-"

"Shut your mouth, cookie boy!" someone snapped. It was a girl's voice. "Do you know how much trouble we could get into if he realizes we met without him orchestrating the entire meeting?"

"Who are you?"

"I'm his pet scientist that he's the 'benefactor' of. Didn't he tell you about me?" she hissed.

"So you're the . . . evil . . . genius?" I asked.

"For the love of god, I'm not evil! I took this job for the same reasons you did: he paid well, I didn't know about what else he did and I was desperate," she hissed. "I need your help, pastry boy. You and I need to find a weakness of his so we can take him down."

"I already know it. His weakness is weight gain. If he gets too fat, he can't use his super speed and can't take on his alter ego, Gangster Flash," I replied. She stood still with shock.

"What?"

"I heard them say it yesterday. They thought I couldn't hear them." She was still not talking or moving. "Uh, are you OK?"

"You have saved me years of trying to find out what his weaknesses are. You little beauty!" she giggled, hugging my face. She stopped abruptly and let me go, listening for footsteps. "I'll come up with a plan. Do whatever he tells you and act dumb. Now go to bed."

"Um . . . OK," I said, leaving the room for the kitchen. I needed a glass of milk. Maybe it would help me get to sleep and forget all of this.

* * *

"Sir, what's your favourite thing to eat?" I asked. Balfour stopped in his tracks.

"Why do you ask?" His voice had a layer of suspicion to it.

"You don't usually eat calorie-dense food, but you appear to really like it," I said. "So I want to know what your favourite food is, so I can modify it and make it with fewer calories." I felt myself literally quaking in my boots as my boss stalked towards me. And then he smiled.

"I applaud your initiative and forward thinking! My favourite thing to eat is cookies! And now you know that, you can get started making something a little more . . . guilt-free. Get to work immediately!" he ordered happily.

"What kind of cookies?"

"Any kind! But I like double chocolate chip cookies the best!" Balfour seemed to be in heaven. He didn't even notice or seem to care that he used super speed to go upstairs. Genius Girl came upstairs from the basement, pushing a large box on wheels.

"Balfour, I have something for you," she cooed.

"Sophia! What are you doing up here?" he angrily squeaked. So her name was Sophia.

"I wanted some fresh air. Also, I have something for you," she replied. This seemed to get the villain's attention.

"I'm listening," he purred.

"I made you a massage chair specially designed for you! It has multiple hands to reach where yours can't, and also several settings," she prattled on. "See for yourself." She pressed a button and hands sprung out, stroking his back and turning him into goo.

"More, please," he groaned. "This feels amazing."

"So you approve?" the genius inventor asked.

"Yes, yes, yes. Approved," he babbled. "Introduce yourself to Lewis and get back to what I told you to do." She rushed off, hiding a smirk. Then she came back, punching me in the arm while I made cookie mix.

"Make sure to make loads," Sophia ordered in a whispering tone.

"On it," I said.

"Also . . . can I have one?"

"No. They are all for our beloved boss." I smirked as I filled cookie mix with as much sugar as I possibly could. I wanted it to be calorie filled, fattening. Perfect.

Addictive.

Of course, I couldn't just use all of the mix at once. I kept most of it in the fridge while one batch was in the oven. I would need cookies as quickly as possible in order to satisfy my boss's needs.

Once the new cookies had been baked and they had cooled down, I decided to go and see Balfour. He was still letting the massage chair rub him every which way, purring as he collapsed into the robotic hands. "Boss? I made you the guilt-free cookies you asked for."

"Really? That's great; just turn the machine off and put it down in front of me," Balfour ordered. I did as he said, backing out of the room and watching as he tentatively ate one. And then another, and another, and then another. He needed the cookies in his hands and then in his mouth, he just couldn't get enough of them. I was just too good at my job.

"More! I need you to make more of them! Immediately!" he ordered.

"Of course." I took out the cookie mixture and scooped out more cookies. "I'm not sure if I'll be able to give you cookies as quickly as you would like? Could I use the robots to help me?"

He agreed almost immediately. "Use whatever you need to make more of these wonderful cookies! I need these!" His eyes looked a little . . . crazed. "I'll turn over voice control to you. Helpers! Do whatever Lewis asks!" The robots turned to look at me . . . if it can actually be called looking.

"Awaiting orders," they chorused, four robots standing to attention. I grabbed the recipe book and showed it to them.

"You will follow these recipes and measure out the ingredients needed to make cookie dough. Don't stop until there is not enough of one of the ingredients to continue. You will need to be in charge of giving the finished cookies to Balfour five minutes after they're cooled down. You will time the cookies to see when they're ready to come out so they don't burn and take them out when they're perfect. You will clean up the utensils needed after each batch. Get to work." They sprang to attention, getting to work immediately. Balfour was still stuffing his face. He looked . . . normal now. Before, he was scarily thin, like he'd never had a proper meal. He'd probably been starving himself for years in order to not get too fat. But now, he looked like a regular guy. He'd shrugged off his jacket, exposing a normal looking stomach, if a little less toned. But I didn't want him to be normal.

I wanted him to be huge.

"More!" His cheeks bulged with cookie dough. "These are all amazing!"

"I know. That's why you hired me," I smiled. "Anything you would want? Maybe sandwich cookies this time, with chocolate icing in the middle?"

"Yes!" Balfour babbled. "That sounds amazing!"

"I'll get started, then." I was about to see how the robots were getting on, when they seemed to run into a problem.

"We no longer have enough brown sugar to complete cookie dough," one robot reported.

"I'll get more! I'll be back as soon as I can!" I said, leaving the house. "Until then, why don't you help yourself to the ice cream and sweets you have in the pantry. It could help tide you over."

"Of course! Whatever you say, Lewis!" He jumped up and began stuffing his face with chocolate, eating like he was starving. His thighs and stomach jiggled as he reached upwards to get a jar of chocolate-covered peanuts, shoving them into his mouth by the fistful. It wasn't like I would need to be worried about him wasting away while I was gone.

* * *

When I came back, restocked on all the ingredients I'd need, Balfour wobbled over to me, frantic. "Thank God you're home! Do you know how long you took? I had to eat everything in the house!"

"I see," I muttered. What was left of my boss's formerly slim physique was gone. He was beginning to take on a rounder form. His fully black outfit had been changed into cosy pyjamas. Cosy pink pyjamas. Not what I was expecting, but OK. "Well, I have more, now, so I can just get started."

"OK," Balfour sighed, holding his stomach. He certainly wasn't going to be running around the streets as Gangster Flash any time soon, but I wanted to be sure.

"OK, boss, go to your chair while I wash my hands and get you more food," I said. "The chair can massage you while you wait." Sophia stood behind me, happily waving around the remote for the chair. Balfour sighed with relief, collapsing onto the chair, which miraculously didn't creak or break. "You've been eating a lot of sweet foods. How about pizza instead? There are some frozen ones in the freezer."

"OK, but can we have some more of those amazing cookies after?" he whined. He looked and sounded like a petulant child. I nodded.

"Of course. Now stay there while I heat up pizza." Balfour huffed and crossed his arms. Sophia pressed a button and leg cuffs sprouted from the legs of the chair. His hands were restrained by two robotic arms. "What's going on? L-Lewis?"

"Thank you, Lewis, you've been very helpful," Sophia grinned, as Balfour struggled. "He'll never be able to terrorize good people with the alias Gangster Flash again."

"Traitors! Cowards!" Balfour screamed, doing his best to get out of the chair. "You ruined me! I'll-"

"You'll what? Eat more cookies?" I scoffed.

"Don't be ridiculous! I'll work all this off and make sure you pay!" he screamed.

I shook my head, grinning. I think I'm getting good at this villain stuff. "We all know that you won't. You're addicted to them, and hopelessly so. You won't be able to go very long without stuffing them into your mouth."

"O-Of course I can! Just watch me!" he snapped.

Sophia let out a snort of laughter. "I doubt it. I'll wait for you to start asking around. I'll be checking some of my other works in the basement, so if he starts resisting, let me know so I can put them in his place." She waltzed off downstairs, smirking. He had a glowering look on his face, but also very smug. He was determined to resist temptation.

I started making food, wanting it to be fattening and extremely addictive. He would never have the willpower to resist anything I ever made again. He was going to be powerless to its smell, its appearance, and the explosion of flavour and taste. Balfour began to whimper when the smell began emanating through the house.

"Lewis, what are you making?" my boss asked.

"More cookies. I'm also making pizza. Want some?"

He sneered and rolled his eyes. "I'll be fine, but thanks for offering." I wasn't fazed. He would want some soon, anyway. I took the food out of the oven, letting the smell travel over to his nose. Looking at it now, it seemed much more wide and piggish that before. It twitched and sniffed as I put them just in his line of sight.

"Sure you don't want one? They're nice and fresh. The chocolate is all melty, too," I cooed. His eyes grew wide, and his willpower evaporated.

Exactly as I knew it would.

"OK! I'll have some of the cookies and pizza! Is that what you wanted to hear?" he spat out. "I love your food, OK!"

"I'm not feeling it. What did you say about the food I make you?"

"I love the food you make for me, and I want more!" Balfour whimpered.

"Just not cutting it, chubby baby. If you want even a crumb, I need you to beg for it," I replied. This was going to be fun.

"You can't . . ."

"Beg for the food and I'll make sure you never have to go long without stuffing your face again. Besides, you're not going to be running around and go be Gangster Flash, will you?" Balfour muttered, and then shocked me.

He began to beg. I had the man behind Gangster Flash begging and grovelling before me. "Please feed me the cookies. I'm going crazy without them and just want to stuff my face. I need them. I want them. It's all I can do, just eat and stuff my face until I can't hold any more food. You're the only one that can help me. Please, Lewis."

"Aww, bloated little Balfour wants more treats like a good pig," I taunted. "I'll get Sophia here so she can watch you. Here's your food, piggish little brat. This is the first time I've actually loved making you food." Pizza and cookies were dumped in front of him, along with some water. Wouldn't want him choking as he stuffs his face, after all. I went to get Sophia. "Hey, Sophia, what would you say if Balfour lost the bet and just begged for food?"

"I'm not surprised," she said, sticking her head out of the door. He hair was black, but I wasn't sure if that from soot or something. I'd never really noticed her hair before. "Leave the rest to me. You make more food for the piggy boy, and I'll stay with him and make sure he's fed."

"What?"

She rolled her eyes. "Just shut up and get back into the kitchen!" I rushed off, and she stalked over to Balfour, who was now terrified. I didn't blame him. Sophia looked like she was about to kill him, and she'd probably kill me, too, if I didn't get out of her way.

* * *

"Hey, I have some more - Sophia, what are you doing?" I asked.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Sophia!" Balfour bawled, as more cookies were shoved into his maw by the livid girl.

"Sorry doesn't cut it! You made me stay in the basement! What you demanded made me go against everything in my moral code! You hurt people with the things I made! You think sorry can cut it, huh? Huh?" She had some serious vengeance to dish out to poor, unfortunate Balfour Vanderchip, and I wasn't about to stop her.

"I won't ever do any of that stuff again," he whined.

"Oh, I know you won't," she growled, stuffing him with more food. His eyes no longer had that smug, know-it-all gleam. He started whimpering like a kicked puppy.

"You want me to stop being Gangster Flash, right?" Balfour asked.

"So he's finally figured it out!" Sophia grinned, rolling her eyes.

"I'll do it. I'll confess to being Gangster Flash, just let me go!" he begged. Sophia grinned, and I let out a sigh of relief. I wasn't so relieved any more when I realized that there was still a batch of cookies that I was halfway through making. And I hated to waste food or leave anything unfinished . . .

"Balfour, I bet you love my cookies, even though you've had so many," I purred.

"Yeah, I love cookies," he admitted.

"And whenever you smell cookies baking, you start to want them, don't you?"

"Yes."

"You're probably going to start wanting the cookies that are in the oven right now, won't you?"

Balfour didn't dare look me in the eyes. "Yes. I want them right now. Can I have them once they're ready?"

I smiled at his now chubby face. "How on Earth did you get this fat that fast? We haven't even been feeding you that long."

"I have an abnormally low metabolism. My body retains calories for me to burn off later when I'm using my super speed," Balfour muttered.

"So I guess that you won't be able to burn this off for a while." He whined with humiliation, blushing. It was adorably pathetic, to be honest.

"No, I won't. And I still want cookies."

"Of course you do, fat baby. I'll get them for you and watch as you eat them yourself, so I know that you are telling the truth." I went to get the cookies out of the oven, fanning the smell over to him. His mouth was watering, and he began to struggle in his restraints. But that chair was never going to let him free. I didn't know much about Sophia, but I knew she was too smart to not make a robotic chair that couldn't hold anybody.

"Get back here soon!" he pleaded. I didn't even bother with a response. I had to get food out of the oven for an overstuffed baby. I put them on a dinner plate and served them up to the fattened alter ego of Gangster Flash. He began to stuff his face at an outrageous rate, cookies disappearing down his gullet at a ridiculous rate. He just used the formula of "Open, Chew, Swallow, Repeat", stuffing cookies into him like the cookies were pennies and his mouth was a coin slot. And this wasn't just a few measly cookies. This was a batch of 24 cookies. Not exactly something to be sneered at. "Ugh . . . can't move."

"Oh, good," Sophia grinned. "I'll call police, and you can go and confess to everything."

And just after hearing that, Balfour Vanderchip burped and passed out.

Guess that call to the police would have to wait.

* * *

"And you're saying you're Gangster Flash?" a confused police officer asked.

"I am! I swear it! I, Balfour Vanderchip, am the person behind Gangster Flash! Test my DNA or fingerprints or something! Whatever you want!" Balfour begged. Maybe fattening up the man wasn't such a good idea. He was unrecognizable now.

"Seriously! No offence, but, uhh, you don't look anything like him," his colleague replied.

"I am Gangster Flash! I wanna hand myself in and name names! What's wrong with you?" he snapped. The police officers looked at his brother in blue and decided to take him into custody anyway.

"Balfour Vanderchip, I am arresting you for armed robbery, burglary, counterfeiting money . . ." The list went on, and I tuned out.

"I'm confused. Just how did you two know him again?" he asked.

"Live-in personal chef," I replied. "I've only been living with him here for a few days."

"He sponsored me for a few months," Sophia replied. "I invented whatever he wanted, and he paid me quite handsomely for it. I didn't know he used it to . . . do that stuff."

"So you're basically the hired help," the cop replied.

"I guess so," I replied.

"I'm an inventor, so hired help is a bit of a stretch," Sophia said.

"You two took down one of the biggest supervillains we've ever dealt with, so here's a deal. You work for us and we grant you immunity from their buddies," he replied. "We'll give you new identities and an explanation for the sudden change in scenery, so long as you work for us."

"Where exactly will we be working?" I asked. I was actually scared to know the answer.

"Ashgate Correctional Centre for Criminally Gifted Metahumans. We need sharp eyes and minds like yours to neutralise inmates' powers." We both got slipped business cards. "Call the number if you're interested. We'll put you up in a hotel until you can get yourselves other accommodation."

I looked at the card before stuffing it in my pocket. "Interesting."

"Very interesting," Sophia agreed.

* * *

We decided to take the offer. She worked on the security systems, and she loved every second of it. Everything was right up her street. I got a job monitoring prisoners' meals, formulating exactly what they would need in order to make sure they couldn't ever escape. It turned out that, for once, the answer was a one-size-fits-all approach. And a rather fun answer, too.

"Lewis, did you do what I think you did?" Sophia asked.

"Hey, I was told to make sure they were docile and not in a position to fight anybody." My hands swept over the prison population, who had all widened under my watch. "The number of fights has gone down, so ha!"

"You're addicted to fattening people up, aren't you?" Sophia teased. "It started with Balfour and you just couldn't quit after that."

"Speaking of Balfour, I need to go see him. I need to make sure he's getting his daily calorie quota. It's almost time for his lunch."

"Sure. I'll leave you to it, Lewis. It was good talking to you," Sophia replied.

"You too." I had to leave pretty quickly after that. Balfour wasn't going to get himself food.

I took a trolley and loaded it up with his lunch for the day (mashed potatoes with sausages and gravy) and also a few of his favourites sweet treats for dessert. Cookies (of course,) sticky toffee pudding, muffins stuffed with chocolate. He would eat it. He always did. "Balfour? Your lunch is ready."

"Thank you," he said, whining from his bed. "Could you bring it to me, please?"

"What a downfall. Gangster Flash too fat to get up off of his bed to get even fatter," I taunted. "Eat up, fatso." I left the food with him, watching as he stuffed his face. I had to make sure he ate everything so he never left again.

"Do you have to stay here with me?"

"I don't have much of a choice. Higher-ups want to know that no food is being wasted." That was technically true, but I wanted to watch him get fatter. I needed to make sure that he could never go back to his reign of terror as Gangster Flash. Looking at his flabby, overstuffed form on his prison bed, I knew that Balfour Vanderchip was never going to be able to terrorize people at lightning speed again.


End file.
